A Question of Honor
by Gemina
Summary: Poland is no fool; he knows Germany is a danger to him. His allies have promised to save him, and he trusts that they will. Is there really any other choice when he faces losing his freedom? There is no sacrifice not worth making for freedom.
1. Paris of the East

Well, if he died right now, he would die happy. Poland strolled cheerily through Warsaw; it was like a giant garden! He paused to admire some particularily striking poppies, before hurrying further down the street, taking in the sights. The city was bustling with people, red and white flags flew all over the town. Life was a feeling, like a drug in his veins. This was the "Paris of the East."

He knew his country wasn't perfect, but they would work out the kinks. He glanced around at the people walking around him. They weren't concerned about Germany, yet. He was amassing power at a rather...alarming rate. Only recently had Czech been taken by him, and he worried he might be next.

He wasn't just being paranoid; considering he was right next to him, and Germany had only spent the last century or so trying to destroy him entirely. He continued to walk briskly, heading for one of the small air fields where young pilots were learning to fly. Their planes were old, left behind by the Germans and Russians in WWI, but there wasn't really much he could do about it. Their government did not have the money for new planes.

He was supposed to meet with England and France in an hour or so, but he had some time to watch the pilots practice. He was always fascinated by the planes, the way they soared above the ground when they seemed like they were too heavy to fly. It was like watching magic.

He sighed to himself, checking the time. He really should head back. The roar of engines vibrated in his chest, and he loathed leaving...but he had responsibilities. He turned back, heading for his home.

It was only twenty minutes after he arrived home that France and England showed up. They were already bickering, about something or other. England was tense, as was France. Poland couldn't blame them; they had gotten pretty badly hurt during the last war. France in particular.

He guided them over to the couch, settling down. The bickering stopped, and both countries looked at him gravely.

"I believe you asked us over here to discuss Germany?" England began, sipping from the cup of tea Poland had settled on the coffee table in front of him. Poland nodded quickly, crossing his legs.

"He's going to attack me; I need your help to remain independent. Will you be my allies?"

France pondered, sighing.

"Well...if we sign our names to some allyship with you...Germany will probably not attack..."

England nodded in agreement.

"We'll sign an alliance with you."

Poland paused a moment, tilting his head to one side.

"But...you will actually help me if he attacks, right?"

France and England nodded quickly.

"If he attacks, of course we'll help you." England replied. "But I doubt he will, if he thinks we'll attack him too."

Poland sighed, swallowing the last of his cup of coffee.

"All right then...I have things to get done. Like, you know, preparing an army."

England raised an eyebrow.

"What sort of technology do you have?"

"Hm?"

"Do you have any of the new war implements?"

"Um...I still have a great cavalry. And some planes...but they're very old."

"A cavalry? Do you seri-you know what? Never mind. We'll be seeing you, Poland." England stood, and France followed his lead, heading for the door. Poland quirked an eyebrow.

"But you didn't finish your-" England and France were already gone by this point. "...tea...oh well, I like tea..." Feliks poured himself another cup; he couldn't very well waste a good pot of tea...

Three hours later, when he'd repainted the entire house pink in a caffeinated frenzy, he'd think differently...


	2. Crying for Help

The air had never been so heavy before, weighing down on his chest like this. Poland was filled with anticipation, as tense as a drawn bow, ready to fight at the first sign of Germany. He had always hated waiting games, and despite England and France's assurances that Germany would not attack, he knew better. He'd seen Germany taking other countries one by one, claiming them for living space...and he knew he would not be stopped by something as light as a piece of paper.

He did not fear Germany himself; he knew he was not ready for a fight. He watched planes diving and rolling in the sky as pilots practiced. Even such a beautiful sight failed to take his breath away. The only comfort he could take in this was that England and France had promised him new planes. These planes were ancient, and liked to malfunction; new planes would make all the difference. He could only hope they'd be here on time...

Even if they weren't on time, Romania had promised to hold onto them if the unthinkable happened and Germany attacked early.

A soldier running down the street disturbed his thoughts, and Poland was quickly on his feet. It could only be bad news if he was running like that...

"Germany has crossed the border!"

Poland's heart skipped a beat; it was much too soon! The planes weren't even in Central Europe yet! He hurried down the street, wincing as he felt the first attacks. If Germany wanted a fight, he would give him hell...

France was lounging on a couch when he heard the news. He paused, looking at the young man who had brought the message.

"Aren't you a cute one? Come here a moment, _mon cherie_..."

England nearly spilled his tea in anger at the news.

"What? Germany himself told me he wouldn't attack! Get him on the phone thi-" The phone had already begun to ring, and England snatched it up.

"Hello? Germany?"

"No! Poland! I'm under attack; I need your help!"

"Let me talk to him first, all right? The last thing we need is another war..." England ran his fingers through his hair with a sigh.

He heard Poland take a quick, angry breath. "There is already war here! When are you coming to help me?"

"I will see what I can do. Good day."

"Bu-" England hung up, getting to his feet.

"Invite Germany over for dinner; I must speak with him about this Poland matter..." England instructed the young man who'd brought him the message.

Poland had quickly figured out that his allies would not be coming to help him immediately. Which was all right, really it was, because he could hold Germany off for a while. They'd come to help him when they had their supplies together.

He sighed to himself, the smell of gunpowder and ashes tickling his nose. Warsaw had only been attacked hours ago, but the casualties were high already. He could feel it in his aching body. He'd already had more than one run in with Germany, and he had narrowly escaped getting his head crushed only recently.

He picked at the scab forming on his forehead; he was utterly alone in his fight for now. It wasn't something he was unused to...for the last century or so, he'd been staging rebellions. He was not eager to be put down again.

Poland took a deep breath, listening as Germany's footsteps plodded through the hallway. He was getting close. Poland steeled himself, standing quickly, aiming his gun at where he heard the noise. He would shoot him in the head.

He stopped short when he saw Germany's gun pointed at his own forehead, his cold blue eyes betraying no mercy. They were at a stand still for the moment...but it would only last a matter of seconds, he knew.

"We meet again."

"No duh!" Poland's juvenile comment made the stern nation frown deeply.

"Your own stupidity is your downfall. This is why I must take care of your lands for you. You were never meant to rule yourself, _Untermensch_."

Poland glared at him angrily, shooting before he thought it through. He would curse his impulsivity later, as Germany knocked his gun up, the bullet harmlessly hitting the ceiling. Germany threw him against the wall, fingers digging into his neck. Poland tried to kick him, as Germany caught his arms, pinning them behind him.

"Warsaw will pay for this..." Germany growled, drawing his knife. Feliks pushed against him, shaking his head.

"N-not Warsaw-please-" He pleaded, even though he could already feel Warsaw burning. Germany's eyes glinted with cruelty; this stubborn little country was more trouble than he was worth. There was silence for a moment, as he felt the small nation's pulse beneath his fingers. Such a simple thing; one would think it would be easy to stop.

He was not overly violent; that was East's job. Germany had a specific mission when he came here, one he had yet to fulfill.

"Surrender."

Poland tensed angrily. How dare he even think he ever would!

"Never! I will never surrender to you-you monster!" He shut his eyes, not feeling nearly as strong as the words he spoke as he felt with the knife digging into his back.

It was then that he heard the door open. He looked over tentatively, finding Russia standing in the doorway, covered in blood. He sagged with relief involuntarily; Russia was on his side, right? He'd talked with him before about helping him. He could tolerate being saved by Russia...

"Thanks heavens you're here! He's gone crazy! Are England and France here?"

The smile Russia gave him was less than reassuring, but the man had always been creepy.

"Little Poland, I am here to save you."

"I know! So could you hurry up, before he sta-" Russia came close to him, pressing a finger to his lips.

"You are misunderstanding; I have come to save you from yourself."

**So, yeah...I love reviews, and if I'm doing something inaccurately, please tell me! I would gladly appreciate it! **


	3. Pamphlets

**So, now comes the stickiest part...writing both the Polish government-in-exile and the Polish Underground.**

**To do this, I've decided to do something I would normally not like, but it makes sense under the circumstances...**

Russia looked to Germany with a sigh.

"He still is not listening...perhaps more persuasion is required?" He set aside his bloodied pipe, staring at Poland as he shuddered. The small nation was soaked in his own blood, yet he kept on wiping the blood off his lips, so he could speak.

"I will never surrender! Never!" Most of the blood was springing up from the gaping wound in his chest, where Warsaw had been stabbed. Germany frowned at this; he was growing impatient. He had not expected Poland to hold on for this long. Looking at Russia's disturbingly innocent smile, he nodded.

"Do with him what you will." He replied, turning to step out of the room. He did not prefer to watch these manner of things...

Russia turned back to Poland, smiling once again.

"Little Poland, I will give you another chance..."

Poland promptly spat on his face, dotting Russia's cheek with red. Russia simply smiled at him, tilting his head to one side.

"You blew me a kiss, da? How cute..." Russia smoothed Poland's hair in a pseudo-affectionate gesture that made Poland's mouth go dry. Russia...he was insane...

"No! No-I did not!" His voice almost squeaked as he was lifted towards Russia, his chin tilted back. Russia simply forced his jaw open with his thumb, Poland's kicks seeming to bounce off him like nothing more than drops of water.

Poland shut his eyes tightly, sobbing as Russia pushed him against the wall, sealing his mouth over his. He would never, never forgive England and France for letting this happen...

* * *

The blood and carnage continued for hours, as Poland waited desperately for help.

"Pl-please...please, England, you promised..." Poland pleaded, his voice barely more than a whisper as he cradled the phone. Russia and Germany were currently sleeping; they had tied his ankle to the chair. It was maddening to remember that he used to be able to move the chair just fine...

England sighed, rubbing at his eyes. It was so late at night to be talking about this.

"...could you not have called at a decent hour?"

Poland might've felt angry at such a question hours ago, but right now, he was too torn apart to care.

"England...I've...split in half..."

There was a splutter on the other end of the phone, and then England spoke.

"You mean...?"

There were times, desperate times, when a country could split itself in half, like seperating the head from the heart. A government in exile.

"Yes."

Poland shifted slightly; the blonde girl leaning against him was fast asleep for the moment, but just as beat up as he was. He would probably not see her again after he fled the country...but he would need somewhere to go.

"Poland? I'm taking action. This is absolutely unacceptable." To put a nation under such duress that they split? He simply would not allow it!

Poland almost laughed.

"Seriously? Oh...oh, thank you! Remind me to send you some flowers!"

"Hm? Oh, yes, of course..."

* * *

Gilbert was busy making his rounds on the streets, when a piece of paper hit him in the face. He spluttered angrily to himself for a moment, glaring up at the plane that had dropped it, before stopping to read it. It was in English, but he knew the language well enough.

His eyebrows travelled farther and farther up his forehead as he read.

England was sending him pamphlets to tell him he and Germany were in trouble for hurting Poland? This was their big attack? Germany had been right when he said France and England wouldn't follow through on that treaty!

Gilbert crumpled up the piece of paper, laughing to himself. What was England going to do next? Call them names?

**All right, so apparently, when the English finally decided to honor their agreement, all they did was drop pamphlets on Germany warning the Germans that they were doing bad things. Some reinforcement, eh? Of course, that's still more than France did...but I'll get to that in the next chapter.**


	4. Friend or Foe?

**All right! Thanks for the reviews! Reviews are always lovely...**

Poland brought his knees up to his chest, looking about quietly. His female half, Felicja, shifted restlessly next to him, still working on the knots. She looked over at him, green eyes troubled.

"You will...come back for me, right?" She managed to get the knot undone, and Feliks stood cautiously, trying to get the feeling back into his foot.

"Of course! I will never stop fighting to save you, understand? I'll talk to France and England; when they see the damage, they'll come charging in here!"

"...can't I come with you?" She fidgeted, looking fearfully towards the door.

"You don't know how to fly a plane. I am sorry, to leave you like this, but I'm the only one with the skills to get away." He hugged her tightly for a moment, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Felicja blinked back tears, squaring her shoulders.

"I will keep fighting in your stead!"

Feliks nodded, and turned quickly, standing on the chair and climbing out the window. He could already hear her start to cry, but he knew he couldn't turn back. He hurried through the dark, moving through the shadows to the hanger. The Germans had mistaken it for a barn, and hadn't taken or destroyed the planes yet.

He held his breath as he creaked the door open; it sounded like a screaming witch in his mind. His nerves were making everything so much louder... He peered about in the dark, looking at the planes, before beginning to check their tanks. He would need one that was as full as possible if he was going to get to Lithuania from here...

Well, perhaps Lithuania wasn't the best choice...he still seemed quite angry over Wilno. He was still one of his very best friends, though.

Poland slid into the cockpit, checking the instruments. Shutting his eyes for only a moment, he finally started the engine, heading for the open doors as quickly as possible. There wasn't much room to take off, what with all the Nazi vehicles and such, but he could make it.

He could already see the night guards jumping to their feet, aiming their guns. Even before the guns started firing, Poland began to move the plane about, making himself a tough target. That didn't stop his plane from getting a few bullet holes, but he escaped unscathed. He was out of their range quickly, and he nearly laughed with relief. Wait until Liet heard about this one...

He was startled out of his thoughts when much larger missiles whizzed by his plane. Poland pulled the plane into a barrel roll, narrowly missing having one of his wings torn off. He'd forgotten entirely about the anti-aircraft guns...

It was a matter of hours later that he arrived at Lithuania's home, smelling of dried blood and gunpowder. He paused to catch his breath when he managed to land the plane, watching as the lights turned on in Liet's house. He was out in no time...would probably scold him for landing in his garden...

"Poland?" Liet stuck his head out the door, peering at him. It was still too early for the sun to be out.

"Yep! Liet, you'll never believe all the stuff that happened on the way here! It was crazy! Do you still have that coffee I like?" Feliks started to struggle his way out of the plane.

Lithuania crossed his arms, looking back into the house.

"Poland's here! Right in the front yard!" He barked, and Poland stopped short, blinking.

"Do you have a guest or something...?" His question was quickly answered when a pair of German soldiers came out the door, guns at the ready. His heart dropped to the bottom of the cockpit.

"L-Liet?"

Lithuania looked at him sternly, his demeanor rather guarded.

"I am not your subordinate anymore, Poland. I am keeping Vilnius."

Poland was no fool; he could tell when Lithuania was being serious. Because he'd known him for so long, and they wer-they used to be best friends. He started the plane up again, narrowly managing to lift off before he hit a tree. Bullets hit his wings, and he was fairly certain one had hit the engine, but it seemed to be working fine for now...

Once he was safely out of range, he chanced a glance back. Lie-Lithuania had already gone back inside...

His eyes burned for a moment, and he quickly used his elbow to wipe away any forming tears. He needed to see clearly to fly.

Where could he go now? Hungary was on the wrong side...and he didn't have enough fuel to make it to France. Romania had promised to help with the shipment of planes England and France had promised him. Perhaps she wouldn't mind him staying with her for a while? Refueling there, grabbing a new plane?

The thought of a brand new plane made the Pole perk up. He had never flown a plane that hadn't been made over ten years ago.

Meanwhile, over in England, the sun was just barely peaking over the hills. England was busy talking to France on the phone.

"I have taken action, and now you are obligated to do the same."

The Frenchman sounded like he was drunk, but England couldn't know for sure. Perhaps he was just groggy.

"Oui, oui...I'll...send a patrol to the Maginot Line..." England could tell, just from knowing him so long, that the Frenchman was waving him off. He sighed.

"Fine, fine. That is perfectly reasonable."

In the rosy dawn sky, Poland was nearly falling asleep at the controls. After avoiding a particularily tall tree by the skin of his teeth, he set to keeping himself awake by biting the inside of his cheek. Romania was just in sight; he could make it that much farther.

He landed sloppily, nearly flipping his plane over, about twenty minutes later, right by Romania's home. He was once again greeted by soldiers, but Romanian soldiers. He smiled wearily at them.

"Hi! Sorry about landing right here...I didn't see an airstrip."

Romania crossed the yard, also in uniform, her normally wild hair braided neatly. Poland had never thought he would be so happy to see her.

"It's fine. Come with us, I'll get you settled in." She looked at him, serious, all business.

Poland paused, not liking the way the guards were looking at him. He scanned ahead, and noticed a large number of Polish planes with their wings removed. He did not like the look of it...and after Liet...

"I should put my plane in a safer place; one moment." Romania didn't seem to object, and so he took off again. He would fly as far towards France as he could, and the walk the rest of the way if he had to. He heard bullets being fired again, and quickly set to evasive maneuvers.

Romania betrayed him as well? Well, at least he knew he could count on England and France...they had promised, after all.

**Yep, that's right. All the French ever did to help the Poles was send a patrol in the general direction of the Maginot Line. And there was that late shipment of planes, sent by France and England.**

**Romania originally promised to hold onto the shipment of planes if Poland was attacked, and the plan was that the Polish airforce would go and pick them up, and continue the fight from there. However, Romania saw what happened to Poland, and quickly declared neutrality. Any Polish pilots who escaped to Romania (unknowing of the neutrality) was locked away.**

**Lithuania was none to kind either; already on Russia's/Germany's side in order to have Vilnius/Wilno, Lithuanians would turn in any Poles who escaped to Lithuania, as they were still rather bitter about the earlier war.**


	5. La Ville Lumière

**Now comes the fun part; writing an OC, and praying she doesn't come off as a Mary Sue while she interacts with another OC..._**

The worst of it had passed; one couldn't call this the dawn after a dark night. It was simply like the deadness of night, as German soldiers goose-stepped through the streets of Warsaw, followed by Russian soldiers. They had managed to kill off almost all resistance, and had now enslaved the city.

Felicja watched them contemptuously, twisting the end of her skirt in her fingers in frustration. She wanted to scream; she wanted to remind them that they were monsters, and Feliks would be back with help, and this victory was only temporary. Warsaw would be free again.

Now that Warsaw and the majority of Poland was under their control, Russia and Germany had allowed her to walk the streets again, provided it wasn't past the curfew. She turned away from the window, going back to stitching. It would only be a matter of time until she was free again. In the mean time, she and her people would prepare for the attack. She paused to peer at the symbol she was stitching onto red and white fabric.

P and W, for_ Polska Walcząca_; Fighting Poland.

* * *

Feliks had been flying for hours longer than he should have been; his eyelids kept drooping, and he was tired to the point that biting the inside of his cheek did little to stop his drowsy state. He didn't think he would make it to France at this rate; he'd been pushing it getting to Romania.

It was that moment that his engine spluttered to a stop, having run out of fuel. The shock of cold air as his plane began to dive gave Poland a second wind, and he quickly struggled with the controls, just barely avoiding hitting the ground nose first. Rather, he slid along a small field, tearing up any grass that was in his way, until he finally came to a stop. There was no doubt that this plane would never fly again...

After rocking back and forth to gather momentum, he pushed himself out of the cockpit, falling limply to the ground below. Perhaps he should catch his breath first? Just...shut his eyes...for one moment...

The moment quickly turned into three hours, and by the time he awoke, it was late afternoon, and he had a sunburn. Which, of course, was the least of his worries, but it was annoying. He stumbled to his feet; he hadn't packed any provisions, because he hadn't thought he'd need any. Anyways, he hadn't had the chance to get any. He looked about a moment, wondering where he was, precisely.

Sighing to himself, he wandered to the edge of the field, and began to follow a small dirt road. He'd have to see if he could disguise his accent, ask for directions. He was probably in Italy, and he knew some Italian, he was fairly certain. He was too tired to think too hard about it...

Maybe someone knew English?

He stopped short when he looked ahead; there was a sign in French. Had he seriously made it to France? He squinted to read it, as if that would help. He had known French quite fluently at one point; it had been the language to know for his nobility.

"France!" He called, searching about. He'd only been to France a few times, but he was fairly certain he could find where France lived. An old peasant paused to stare at him.

"_Yes, this is France. Where are you from, foreigner?_"

Feliks paused, thinking a moment, before answering in halting French.

"_I...am from Poland. Do you where Paris is?_"

The old man nodded, sighing.

"_Follow that road. It will lead you to Paris. Do not take any turns._"

Feliks smiled, shaking the man's hand.

"Of course! Of course! Thank you so much!" He started down the road, leaving the old man to stare after him a moment, scratching his head as he tried to figure out what the excitable young foreigner had just yelled...

Feliks tried his best to make it to Paris before nightfall, but it was an entirely unrealistic goal. He ended up curling up beneath a tree, sleeping through the night. He would probably smell and look terrible by the time that he got to Paris, but that wasn't his biggest concern. Even though he liked to look nice.

By the time he reached Paris, he had been walking for over ten hours. He looked at the bustling of the city; Warsaw had often been compared to Paris, but the two seemed quite different. He sighed; Paris remained untouched, and its people continued to go through their lives as if they didn't have a care in the world. Passing by open windows, he heard laughter, and music; he saw people drinking wine, and men wooing women.

He arrived at France's home after a few hours of searching; he'd remembered basically where the house was, but in a large city like Paris, basically was not enough. He knocked on the door, feeling about ready to collapse.

"_One moment~!_" France sing-songed, and after a couple seconds, he opened the door. He'd apparently been busy, judging by the lipstick stain on his cheek, and his shirtlessness. Poland blushed, looking down at the floor.

"Hi...um..."

France looked at him a moment, before quirking an eyebrow.

"Would you like to join in...?" He snaked an arm around him, leading him into the house. Poland blinked, turning a deeper red.

"N-no! I-I-"

France slid his hand down his side, and Poland promptly elbowed him hard in the ribs. France let out a pained yell that startled the young woman sitting on the couch. She pulled her blouse closed hastily, watching the two with wide eyes.

"D-don't you dare touch me!" Poland yelled at France, retreating, breathing hard. France looked at him, an arm still wrapped around the rapidly forming bruise.

"All right, all right. No one is touching you, so calm down, oui? What did you come here for anyways?"

"I am a refugee; I needed somewhere to stay!" Poland replied, crossing his arms. "You're one of my allies; surely you'll give me somewhere to stay?"

France sighed, nodding.

"The guest room is empty. Third room on the right. Sorry if the window won't close, it's stuck."

Poland nodded, turning and heading down the hall.

"Thank you."

**Now I can't wait to write the next chapter...cause there are planes! Poland, at this point time, is a tad obsessed with planes.**


	6. Trains Can Be Made Slower

**Okay, well I've noticed most of my readers are Polish *waves* Which, you know, makes sense and all, but I thought that was pretty awesome. Thanks to everyone** **who reviewed! ^_^**

Poland had found his room to be quite cold at night, but he felt it would be rude to ask for better accomodations. There were probably other refugee nations in France, so the rooms were all taken. Though the only people he ever saw were young women and officers in rumply uniforms.

He sighed to himself, lacing his shoes. There was suddenly a bang, and Poland's heart nearly stopped. Germany had arrived! He hurried to his belongings, grabbing his pistol, before slipping out the door, back pressed against the wall. There was another bang, and he quickly pinpointed the noise.

It seemed odd that none of the other inhabitants of the house had been disturbed, but Poland was not about to let his guard down. They were probably trying to find their ammo, considering how sloppy the French soldiers had been with their weapons lately. Well, now war was upon them, and they weren't ready!

He edged towards the door, heart pounding. This was France's room; Germany had probably gone after him first, because he was stronger. Taking a deep breath, Feliks threw the door open, aiming his gun. There was a startled scream from the young woman on the bed, as she tried to cover herself up, and France turned towards him, holding a champagne bottle and quirking an eyebrow.

"Poland, what are you doing?"

Poland looked about the room, turning red. Champagne bottles. It was only champagne bottles... "Um..."

France got up from the bed, revealing himself to be quite naked. Poland turned an even deeper shade of red, looking away.

"Nothing! I just thought I heard gunshots! What're you doing drinking so much anyways? Germany could be here any minute!"

France rolled his eyes, though he seemed to remember not to put an around Poland, as he turned him to the door.

"Why don't you ask Jean Paul to show you the planes? You like planes, oui?"

Poland huffed slightly, but he nodded. There was no talking the Frenchman out of pretending there was no danger. He headed for the door, finding Jean Paul waiting for him. France had been planning to get him out of the house, hm?

He silently followed Jean Paul, arms crossed as he trudged along the sidewalk. It took a while to get to the airfields, but Jean Paul didn't try to make any conversation. He seemed to get the idea that Poland didn't want to talk. When they reached the hangar and stepped inside, however, Feliks' jaw dropped. He hurried forward to examine the beautiful, beautiful planes before him.

"How is this made entirely of metal? How does it get off the ground? It's beautiful! It's new! What sort of engine does this have?"

Jean Paul chuckled as Poland babbled, asking question after question, wanting to see everything. He certainly seemed like the excitable type...

Poland examined the propeller, fingers running along the edge. It was so smooth...just like the wings. They had to cut through the air like a knife through warm butter. He looked to Jean Paul hopefully.

"May I fly it?"

Jean Paul sighed, shaking his head.

"You would have to ask France...but you can sit in the cockpit if you wan-Poland?"

Poland was already out the door, heading for France's house. Jean Paul sighed, following. It was his duty to keep an eye on him, after all.

When Poland burst into his room once again, France was exasperated.

"Do you not have anything else to do?"

Poland approached him quickly; the young woman was gone by then, so he'd caught him at a good time. France looked at Poland's eager, excited eyes, and quickly got ideas.

"You're rethinking joining me, oui?" He stood, stretching slightly and sending Poland a wink. Poland didn't bother to huff, simply shaking his head as his request spilled out.

"You know those pretty, beautiful, absolutely amazing new planes you have? Can I fly one? Oh please? I know how to-and I can help fight that way!"

France sighed, rubbing his forehead.

"Poland...those are expensive planes..."

"I'd be careful! I've flown planes hundreds of time before!"

"...perhaps we could strike some sort of deal, oui...? Perhaps you could spend some time with me, then I let you use my plane...?"

Poland's eyes narrowed, understanding precisely what sort of activities France would want. He huffed, shoulders dropping.

"It's no big deal...later, maybe? When, I don't know, you realize there's a war?" He turned on his heel, storming out of the room.

* * *

There had been little news from Feliks lately, but Felicja kept her fingers crossed that he would send news. Currently, she was "working" on the railroad; she'd been assigned to railroad work with a number of her men in the hopes that the hard work would kill her. This was highly unlikely, of course, but she took advantage of her new position, putting rails in upside down, attaching bolts wrong, and generally causing delays.

"Felicja! He's here, and he looks ready to explode!" One of the workers called, and when Felicja looked up, there indeed was Germany, storming down the track towards her.

"What is going on here? How hard is it to put the track together correctly?" Germany demanded, his face a deep, angry red. Felicja shrugged, eyes widening slightly, tilting her head to the side as if trying to understand him.

"I thought I was doing it right. I'm too stupid to know how to do this right, remember?"

To say she was delighted at the shade of purple Germany's face turned was an understatement. She narrowly managed to keep a straight face as Germany practically screamed at her.

"DO IT RIGHT!"

He turned on his heel, storming away. Felicja shrugged to herself.

"I'll try, but this stuff is just too smart for me, Germany..."

Only hours later, she heard the news from the other workers that the ridiculous number of delays had finally taken their toll: Germany was redirecting all the trains so that they went around Poland.

**Fun stuff here, but just to note a few things; the Polish Underground was quite active in the area of sabotage. It took so long to send anything by train through Poland, the Germans rerouted the trains around Poland.**


	7. Messerschmitt at Nine o'Clock!

**So I know it's been forever since I updated, but I was conducting research/developing a new character. I was rather inspired to write this chapter by a polonaphobic American Jew. **

Poland was ready to scream and tear his hair out. Both at once.

France was truly lost to reality, still drinking his wine and "visiting" with girls. He continued to wave Poland off, still waiting for his end of the bargain to be fulfilled. Poland shuddered to himself; he never wanted to think about sex again...not after what had happened back home. He leaned against the wall, staring at the crucifix on the white walls of his room.

"You would understand my agony, wouldn't you? But you must know...I can't keep sitting here on my hands. I didn't escape Germany and Russia to flee to safety. I can't let Felicja remain in their grasp." He bit his lip a moment, considering. "I know you can't force anyone to do anything...but could you help me persuade France to let me fight? Please?"

Poland glanced toward the door when he noticed what seemed to be feet in the light that shone beneath the door. He got up, opening the door solemnly.

"Hello? Can I help you?"

It was only Jean Paul, looking contrite at being caught.

"I'm sorry...I was walking by and couldn't help overhearing." He looked at Poland, still rather guilty looking at being caught listening to another's prayers. "I could speak to France for you, put in a good word. You seemed to know what you were talking about when we were looking at the planes the other day-oof!"

Poland had caught the Frenchman off guard, suddenly hugging him tightly, pinning his arms at his sides.

"Thank you! Thank you!"

Jean Paul smiled lightly, waiting patiently for the Pole to let him go. He had never seen anyone so happy to go to war...

* * *

Felicja had been moved back to Warsaw. The city was still in ruins, the leftovers of blitzkrieg. She couldn't see one building that hadn't been marked by the Nazis' violence...just like the people. She shuffled past survivors picking through the rubble; Poles were only allowed out in the streets during certain times, and they were making the best of it.

If anything seemed more out of place, it was the walls in the middle of the street, sealing off the Jewish population of the city. Felicja glanced about furtively, before approaching the wall.

"Fayvel!" Her voice was a strained whisper, as she glanced about again to be certain no German guards would see her...

"I'm here." He sounded terribly worn, but he was still alive. As was to be expected. "Who are you?"

"I am Poland. I cannot explain right now...Fayvel, what do you need over there?"

There was a pause, as the person on the other side seemed to try to determine whether or not this person was trustworthy. Finally, he spoke.

"Everything. Food, blankets, medicine...but food the most."

"Do you have ration cards?" Felicja glanced about again, heart beating wildly. She was staying here far too long...she would surely be noticed.

"No...but we have money. We can give you money for the food. It is worthless to us here..."

"All right...I will be back in an hour. Have it then, and I will bring what food I can." She hurried off without saying goodbye, spotting a German guard turning the corner. She quickly bent over, pretending to pick at the rubble like all the other Polish women...

* * *

Poland was finally in the air, going on patrol with French pilots. It was actually a rather nice day out, even if the sun was a bit bright. These planes were as good as he'd thought they'd be; it was like a dream. He sighed, scanning the surrounding area automatically.

It was what he spotted next that made his heart stop for a moment: a Messerschmitt. He quickly radioed to the others.

"Messerschmitt at nine o'clock!"

The staticky response he got were rather disappointing.

"It's just a scout. Leave it alone."

"We're almost done anyways. We'll report the sighting when we get back."

Poland frowned, before altering his course. He would not let that scout get back to Germany! He dove at the plane, shooting wildly. It went down in a matter of seconds, clearly not expecting an attack.

Feliks looked about, only to find that the rest of the squadron had went back to the base without him. He groaned; the French air force was as bad as France himself!

**All right, so, Fayvel is the personification of the Jewish population in Poland. I gave him a Yiddish name, because that what was most commonly spoken in that area.**

**And, in the French military's defense, there were a number of officers who knew of the threat, but they were generally out-voted. Most of the French were in denial about what was going on.**

**Also, Messerschmitt is an awesome German plane; one of the best of the WWII era. **


	8. Because I am the Hero

**And further research has inspired me to write again! ^_^**

**Big note: I am not an anti-semite; character's thoughts/reactions are merely representations of Polish-Jewish relations of the time!**

Felicja had gathered the food, sighing to herself. She would get it to him tomorrow...she could not afford to go near the walls again, not when Germany was watching her...

She had settled into an emptied house; looking at the decorations, she could easily tell it had been a Jewish family's home. They would probably never return to this home...but she still didn't move anything. She would only take shelter here as long as need be.

She glanced at the other Poles who had settled into the home with her. They had been huddled in the tiny parlour for the past twenty minutes, discussing what they should do about the "Jewish problem". One of the women spoke up, shaking her head.

"They've never liked us, we've never liked them. Why should we help them?"

There were nods of agreement among the group, many of the older folk especially inclining their heads at this true statement. One of the younger men, he was almost still a boy, really, raised his head at this, eyes burning.

"We cannot call ourselves Catholic if we turn our backs on such atrocities. We do not like them, and they do not like us; but have we not been told time and again that we are to love our enemies? Who and what they are does not matter; what is happening to them does! We cannot stand by and cover our eyes!"

Felicja sighed, shaking her head lightly; she didn't like the idea of risking herself for Fayvel anymore than she was doing already. The fact was, however, if the Jews stayed here, they would die. Another fact also remained...

"Some of our own are among them. Should we not prioritize them?" An older man, a poor fellow who had lost the skin off the side of his head in the attack, spoke gravely, his words slow and measured. There were Catholics among the Jews, and it would not be at all hard to tell either group apart, but...

"No. We save as many as we can, Catholic or not. It is worse for them to die than for us." An older woman, her face tired and yellow in the candlelight, spoke in a soft voice. Everyone in the room took her as seriously as if she had been yelling, hanging their heads in shame for having entertained the thought. Felicja looked around at the group.

"Then we shall have a unit devoted to this."

Thus, Zegota was born.

* * *

Poland had been flying for only a matter of months when what he had feared (and warned France about a million times) finally happened.

He awoke in the middle of the night to the roar of planes overhead, and the deafening sounds of mortars going off.

"France! France, get up! The planes are in plain sight!" Knowing that France probably wouldn't get up, Poland hurried to the air fields, praying he wasn't too late...

The flames and smoke that seemed to engulf half the hangar told him he barely had a moment to spare. He leaped past rubble, finding one of the airplanes. It wasn't one of the ones he'd been taking care of, but he couldn't be picky now...

The plane narrowly had enough space to take off, but he made into the air, quickly swooping about to try and fight off the horde of Messer-Schmitts. He dove down at their formation, pulling the trigger on the gun...only to hear a lot of clicking, and no gunfire. Someone had not bothered to reload the gun. Poland broke out in a cold sweat of panic, swerving away. A plane without a gun was a sitting duck...

He cast a quick glance around the surrounding area; he was the only plane in the air. None of the French pilots had made it to their planes in time. France was as doomed as he'd been...if not more. He veered to the right, narrowly avoiding gunfire: they'd spotted him. With some difficulty (he didn't know why it was so hard, all of a sudden, but it was as if the controls had gotten more slippery) he veered his plane, aiming for England. He couldn't fight here...but he could help in England. He distantly remembered England being the more war-ready type anyways. He'd put him to use right away.

* * *

Felicja had only been out minding her business when she was dragged into Germany's office. Sitting in the chair, however, was Gilbert. He looked her up and down a moment, raising an eyebrow.

"Wow, you always were rather girly, but this is a bit much, Poland!" He snickered, as Felicja rolled her eyes.

"I'm Felicja. Feliks is off with the Allies, and you'll be sorry when he comes back for me!" She snapped, hands on her hips. Like her male counterpart, she was proud and stubborn; a dangerous combination. Gilbert shook his head at her.

"You really shouldn't be so d*** rude, polack. I'm in charge of you, ya know." He seemed to be making an attempt to be cool and collected, but his anger was blatantly obvious. His twitching fingers also gave away that he wanted to strangle her.

"What? You going to make me be nice to you?" Felicja replied, crossing her arms. Gilbert glared.

"You little-guards! Take her to Auschwitz!" He ordered, standing up from his chair loudly enough to startle Felicja. "Let's see how stubborn you'll be then!"

**All right, first off, thanks for the awesome reviews! As usual, they reminded me I was writing a fic, so I finished this chapter. ^_^**

**Now down to the facts: Most Jewish Poles, because they were such a large group, remained more isolated from the mainstream culture than Jews in other countries. One could see just by looking at people which were Poles and which were Jews just by the way they dressed and behaved. Anyways, this habit of insulating themselves from the Poles made them seem unfriendly (which they were) as well as alien to other Poles. Lovely, right? (there were exceptions; some Jews served in the Polish army when Germany invaded.) More on this in later chapters.**

**Poles disliked Jews. However, many of the loudest anti-semitic voices called for Poles to rescue the Jews. Why? Well, besides Poland's long history of heroism (a very cherished value) most Poles figured they were doing what was right. Especially if it caused a snarl in Nazi plans. Double bonus. More on this in later chapters.**

**Also, Germans rounded up Jews in Poland based on facial features, skin tone, hair, the like...which meant that a number of ethnically Jewish Catholics were among the Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto, while a very small number of ethnically Polish Jews remained on the outside (these were rather rare, due to the Jewish community of Poland heavily disliking "outsiders").**

**Most of France's air force was bombed on the ground, because, once again, they were unprepared for an attack. Many of the Polish infantry, sailors and pilots made it to England, while others fled south, and then eventually went to England to continue fighting.**

**Last one; it is a little known fact that the first prisoners of Auschwitz were Catholic Poles. **

**Also, England will finally be making an appearance again next chapter! (along with a number of his colonies...)**


	9. Abandon All Hope

**In response to a reviewer: Well, most Poles never even got to know the Jews of Poland, because the majority did not wish to interact with gentiles. It was very rare at the time for a Pole and a Jew to be good friends.**

**Thanks for all the lovely reviews, guys, I will continue to try to be as accurate as possible!**

Poland had found the weather in England for the past couple days to be absolutely deplorable...but the damp smell kind've reminded him of the marshes back home. Which really only made him nostalgic, and even more homesick. He couldn't wait until this war was done and he could go home. He turned over in the bed he'd been given; it was better than back in France, because the window actually closed. He snuffled, wiping at his face with the blanket; it wouldn't do to cry now. Felicja probably wanted to cry wherever she was; she had it much worse than he did...

* * *

Felicja entered the gates, staring at the sign overhead. She didn't speak German, and for all she knew, it said something like "Welcome, prisoners"; it might as well have said "Abandon all hope". Already she could smell burning flesh, a scent she had become all too familiar with during these times. It was colorless, soul-less, but it was the people already inside that broke her heart. As she walked along in a straight line with the other men, she swallowed thickly; normally, the women would be seperated from the men, but Gilbert seemed to have made an exception for her. She already had a patch marking her as Polish sewn onto her jacket, and a note pinned to her shirt, like she was a small child sent to relatives in another country. If only...

She watched as the prisoners filed forward, some going to the right, others to the left. She shut her eyes a moment, trying to take a full breath. It was impossible with the smell of ashes and burning flesh in the air. She made it the front of the line, and was quickly motioned to the right. She didn't know if this was a bad thing or a good thing, but she followed quickly, herded with the group of men to some building. She didn't know what it was, and she had no way of knowing. The men around her didn't seem to know either.

"Strip!" One of the soldiers barked, and the men around her began to strip down. Felicja clutched her clothes to herself for a moment; like her male counterpart, she did not prefer to be naked. She turned to the one of the guards, to question this order...when a shot rang out. One of the men had been doing same thing. Felicja's eyes widened in horror as she watched the man crumple to the ground, and she swiftly began to shift out of her underclothes. She left them in a pile on the ground, knowing she would probably never wear them. All the better. Perhaps the note would never reach the man who ran this camp. She had been unable to read it, due to it being in German, but she knew it couldn't be good.

Crossing her arms around herself, she hurried forward into the building. She heard more instructions being barked, and she promptly copied those around her in turning the faucets. Cold water gushed over her head, and she nearly cried out from the shock. She trembled, her thin frame not providing any protection from the onslaught of liquid ice. She heard one of the guards laugh, and she turned as red as she possibly could with such cold surrounding her. He was watching her...

She attempted to cover herself up with her arms, but she was quickly herded forward, out from under the water, and into the yard. If the earth had not been so packed in, she would have tried to sink into it, as guards leered at her. She watched as the men before her had their heads shaved, and she closed her eyes. Really, it shouldn't be a big deal. It was just hair. Someone gripped her chin and briskly shaved her hair short, and she tried not to cry. It was just hair. It meant nothing. The men doused them with white powder, and passed them striped uniforms.

She shrugged into the uniform that was much too big, and followed them to the barracks. The sun was setting, and they wouldn't be doing anything further today. She crammed herself onto one of the boards the soldiers called "beds" and tried to sleep, a hand wandering to her head, to check if her blonde locks were truly gone...

* * *

Feliks was going to tea with England today. He hoped this meant that he would get to fly immediately; the sooner they defeated Germany, the sooner he could go home. He hurried through the door, finding his seat. England was already sitting in his chair primly, waiting on him.

"You're late." He informed him, obviously displeased. Poland paused; he didn't speak English...

"Um..." This could be a problem...

"Parles-vous francais?"

He got the idea England might not have liked French from the way his face turned red...

**All right, notes here we go!**

**Polish soldiers, by the time they reached Poland, were incredibly homesick, but they liked England better than France because they seemed to be more aware of the war going on.**

**Auschwitz...normally the men would be seperated from the women, but for the story's sake, I've placed her among the men. Poles and Jews were often sharing the same space in Auschwitz, though the number of Jews was almost always higher than the number of Poles. Poles were distinguished by the the red triangle with P on it.**

**When Polish soldiers finally arrived in England, it turned out that none of them spoke English, though quite a number spoke French. Englishmen who spoke French were pretty quickly put to use, but the Polish soldiers had such a difficult time learning English, which is one of the hardest languages to learn in the world, that many thought they were a bit simple minded. Their heavy accents didn't help things. Also, excuse my lack of symbols on the French...I can't get my keyboard to agree with me...**

**I realize they were talking before...assume that the half of Poland that knows English was Felicja.**


	10. Poland Is Not Yet Lost

**All right, new chapter. I've been busy researching the Holocaust for a paper, actually, so this has been a good time to write more of this fic...**

Eventually, they'd found a translator who would change his heavily accented French into the intricate language that was English. What Poland heard from this translator, however, was not what he'd wanted to hear.

"What? But I know how to fly a plane! I fought back home and in France!"

England's eyebrow twitched at the outburst, and he settled his tea cup and saucer back on the side table as the translator relayed the message. He stood, motioning for Poland to follow him.

"You might not understand this, but we've heard about your tactics against Germany. We would rather retrain you before we put you to use."

Poland watched him speak, then looked to the translator. Once again, he was not happy with the message.

"England! I am a professional! I don't want to be retrained like some rookie!"

"You will relearn. And that is final."

Poland didn't need to wait for the translator to know what England had said. He turned on his heel in disgust, hurrying back to his room. He had not come here to take lessons on how English people flew their planes!

* * *

Felicja had laid awake the entire night, unable to sleep. Every few minutes, she would hear someone sniffle, or taking a shuddering breath, and she knew she wasn't the only one silently mourning.

The sun wasn't even peeking over the horizon yet when they were awoken harshly by the guards. She stumbled out to stand in line with the other prisoners, looking around her. She stood barely to the shortest man's shoulder, but her flat chest and cropped hair made her look more like an effeminate boy than a girl.

She looked straight ahead, fearing that if she stood out too much, she would be singled out. When the guard stopped in front of her, her heart leapt into her throat; staring at his uniform, she swallowed, unable to look up.

Then he moved on, standing in front of the next prisoner before a few seconds, looking him over. Though she didn't quite relax at this, she did summon up the courage to glance around for a moment. There wasn't much more to see than what she had seen last night; in the morning light, it only looked more depressing and lifeless.

This went on for two more hours, her feet aching and the back of her neck getting sunburned. The prisoners were then ordered to stumble back to the barrack area, most choosing to lie back down on the cots. Felicja, on the other hand, began to look among the prisoners, to see if she knew anyone. Most had red badges on their arms, like her. She traced the small 'p' on her badge that denounced her as Polish. She wondered how many more of her people were in these death camps, and what they had done to be sent here...

As if Germany needed a reason to be cruel.

There was one young man in particular that caught her eye; he had a pink bar fixed above the red triangle, and he could seem to stop rubbing at his arm, as if he'd been branded with a hot iron. She took a seat beside him, ignoring the ashes that seemed to pollute every corner of this living graveyard.

"Hello..."

He looked at her, hand immediately going to cover the patch and bar. She sighed, shaking her head at him.

"I don't know what you're trying to hide, but please, be calm. You're a fellow Pole, and whatever the Germans say you are, I don't believe them." She assured him. The young man shut his eyes a moment, shaking his head.

"...my name is Jan...I am...was...a seminarian..."

Felicja frowned slightly.

"Don't talk like that! We'll get out of here, and you'll be in the seminary once again. I know, because my...brother is still out there fighting, with our pilots and soldiers. They'll never give up until we're free!" She nearly shouted in her sudden passion, as Jan looked at her pleadingly to be quiet. She sighed. "Sorry...Just don't give up hope. There are so many people working to free Poland right now..."

* * *

Poland had never been more humiliated in his life. All right, he had, but this was just ridiculous! Riding around on a tricycle could not be considered proper training!

"Poland! You're out of place! Everyone start the formation over!" England called over the megaphone. Poland had picked up enough English to know that they had to do the stupid plane dance England called an "attack pattern" again. Anyone who ever flew a plane knew that pilots flying this close together would have a difficult time dodging anything! He stood from his tricycle with a huff, storming off the field.

"I am not doing this!"

"Poland!" England barked, still using the megaphone. Poland simply shook his head in disgust, heading back into the barracks that had been assigned to him and his pilots. Why was England so ridiculous? He knew how to fly a plane! And Germany was already attacking, and all England could think about was whether or not Poland could fly his pretty little formations. He flopped down on his bunk, just as he heard the door open.

It was England and he'd brought the translator.

"Poland, if you keep behaving like a two year old, you are never going to fly, understand?"

The translator relayed the message, and Poland went red with fury.

"Me? A two year old? You're the one making us ride tricycles instead of real planes! We're professionals and you're treating us like children!"

There was another pause as the translator relayed the message, and England frowned.

"It is necessary! Do you want a repeat of when Germany invaded you? Do you?"

Well, if the Englishman had been intent on making the Pole angrier, he'd hit the nail on the head. Poland nearly popped a vein.

"YOU were supposed to help me! I was counting on you and that stupid Frenchman to back me up! And you never came because you are a gutless coward!"

England frowned at that, seeming to be making an attempt to reign in his own temper.

"That has nothing to do with this. Either do the exercises, or you won't fly. End of discussion." England turned on his heel, heading out the door. When Poland got the translation, he threw his pillow at the door angrily, yelling after England and scaring the poor translator.

"You are so damn stupid!"

* * *

If that day had been anymore difficult, Felicja would've just given up and died. They definitely were not being fed enough...did Germany intend to starve them all to death? She sighed to herself, shutting her eyes and breathing out a silent prayer.

"_May Poland be delivered, and if that is not possible, may Germany be destroyed..._"

**Okay, so, fact stuff...**

**Polish pilots, despite having more actual experience than the British pilots, were considered unskilled because of how quickly Poland had succumbed to Germany. Also, Polish flight patterns were not nearly as intricate as British ones; the Poles preferred to leave large gaps between their planes, so that they could have plenty of space if something went wrong with their plane, or they were attacked. Brits flew in tighter formations, which also worked, but were extraordinarily different than what the Polish pilots were accustomed to. Oh yes, and they had the Poles practice flight formations and signals on tricycles, because they were certain they'd crash their planes.**

**Early on in Auschwitz, the majority of prisoners were Poles, not Jews. Most of the Jews were in ghettos at this point. The little pink bar stands for "homosexual" which was punishable under German law long before the Third Reich.  
**


	11. Contact

**And the introduction of a new character! (By the way, so glad you guys like the historical parts of this, because I put a lot of research into this story *is totally OCD*).**

Feliks settled against the wall in the bunker, hands pressed to the side of his head. He couldn't stand it; he could hear the air battles, and he couldn't do anything about it. It had been going on for a while now, and he had simply been unable to sleep because of it. When he heard the sounds of battle, he couldn't help but let his mind wander back to what had had happened to him...and what was happening to Felicja...

He couldn't just stand back and let her be hurt...but he hadn't heard anything from her since he left...

He rubbed his temples, swallowing. He hadn't thought much about home, and yet at the same time, it seemed to always be on the edges of his mind. She was still a part of him, after all...

It was odd; when he thought about the aching feeling of missing Felicja, it always seemed like the ache was bigger than it should be. He'd know a feeling like this, of course, since he had been divided into three pieces previously...

Felicja had been governed by Austria, but there had always been Felicjan, victim of Russia. Poland's eyes widened slightly; he hadn't thought much about Russia if he could help it...but Russia had to have gotten something out of attacking him...

* * *

Felicja's hands were raw and bleeding; she couldn't stand the pain as she held her hands to her chest. The cold numbed them slightly, but it couldn't seem to quell the burning feeling. These guards were cruel beyong belief...

Jan entered the sleeping quarters, sighing.

"I have something kind've like bandages...hold still..." He gently pried her hands away from her chest, wrapping semi-clean cloth around her hands. He'd smeared them with something so they wouldn't stick to the wound, but Felicja didn't know what. It smelled terrible.

"I'm sorry..."

Felicja scowled slightly; as if any prisoner in this place should have to apologize for the sheer cruelty of it. She shook her head at Jan.

"It's not your fault...I shouldn't have been so stubborn..." She'd refused to eat something crawling with maggots; the other prisoners referred to her as 'picky'. The guards had guided her and a few other prisoners to the outer limits of the prison camp, showing them steel bars.

Then they made them pick them up with their bare hands.

Felicja shuddered; her hands still stung, but the bandages helped. Maybe it was psychological than physical comfort, but it felt better to have bandages. Jan shook his head.

"I saw where you were headed...I could've warned you."

"What, so I could run back and fetch my mittens?" Felicja replied, rolling her eyes.

When the prisoners were forced to set the steel bar down a few feet away, the skin had peeled right off their hands, stuck to cold metal.

* * *

Felicja had been called into Prussia's office a few days into her stay; the smirk on his face was evident, and he clearly expected her to be broken. She lifted her chin defiantly; she would not allow the pride of Poland to be broken.

"You called to see me?" She asked, though her voice was weak from malnourishment and illness.

"I want you to see something..." Prussia replied, passing her a photograph. Felicja blinked, gingerly taking it with her damaged hands. It depicted a small blonde boy, who looked distinctly like herself and Feliks. Her eyes widened lightly; this boy didn't look like he was going to survive the week, let alone the war.

"What did you do to him?" She knew his name; it was familiar, like an old, old memory.

"He's Russia's. This is what could happen to you if you keep being so impudent." He assured her, crossing his legs in triumph. Felicja looked down at the picture again; Felicjan had been Russia's before...before Poland became one country again. Why was he so small now? She'd always been the tiny one of the three...

She had to help him.

She couldn't help him from Auschwitz.

Felicja suddenly collapsed at Prussia's feet, bursting into fake tears.

"Please! Get me out of this camp! I-I can't stand it!" She pleaded, swallowing the pride that threatened to kill this whole charade. Prussia smirked.

"I thought you'd come around; all right, just this once. Because I'm so awesome like that. Go ahead, go home."

Felicja stood, curtsying gratefully for good measure, before hurrying from the room.

She would've rather lifted that steel bar again than do that...but it had been necessary. First off, she'd need a radio; Poland had to know about this.

* * *

Poland had been trying to sleep and failing miserably when one of his pilots burst into the room, excited.

"We have contact from Warsaw!"

Poland was on his feet in no time, rushing to the radio.

"...the Germans have been herding the Jews into ghettoes..." A tired voice from across the continent informed them, and Poland nearly leaped in glee. The news was terrible, but having any contact with his homeland could mean a world of difference.

"Feliks! Hello? It's Felicja! Felicjan's back!" Felicja seemed to have taken over, and Feliks nearly cried in relief; she sounded terrible, but she was still free.

There was his confirmation, however; Felicjan. He had an unlucky fate in life, much like the res of Poland, it seemed. He would have to speak to England about this...

"How can we respond?" He asked the other pilots, who were hanging on every word that came out of that radio. One of them shook his head.

"We don't know; they keep changing their broadcasting location."

Feliks' heart sank.

"Well...at least they're still alive..."

"Please rise for the national anthem of Poland..." The tired voice was back on, and the anthem began shortly.

"_Jeszcze Polska nie zginęła,_

_Kiedy my żyjemy._

_Co nam obca przemoc wzięła,_

_Szablą odbierzemy._

_Marsz, marsz, Dąbrowski,_

_Z ziemi włoskiej do Polski._

_Za twoim przewodem_

_Złączym się z narodem..."_

**First off, translation for the lyrics (note: I do not speak Polish)**

**Poland has not perished yet**

**So long as we still live**

**What foreign force has taken from us**

**We shall take back with the sword.**

**March, march, Dąbrowski,**

**From Italy to Poland**

**Under thy command**

**Let us now rejoin the nation.**

**All right, now for the rest of history! Even when Britain was actually under attack, most Polish pilots were still deemed unfit for flying; instead, when the number of pilots were running low, they'd train teens and young men for a matter of hours, then send them up into the air. Because Polish pilots would crash their planes, but inexperienced teens would not...**

**Also, I took the steel bar story from an actual account by a Holocaust survivor, so, that sort of thing really did happen (as if that would be hard to believe, considering other things Nazis did, but still).**

**The Soviet-occupied part of Poland was significantly smaller than the portion Germans had taken; Russians managed to kill the Poles at a rate of three to four times faster, however. Little known history, there. I'll touch more on this in later chapters, because there's some interesting stuff there involving Polish-Jewish relations...**

**The Underground Army had a radio station with which they broadcast everything that was going on in Poland; most of the Allies thought they were exaggerating, as always...**


	12. The Littlest One

**Now for the newest chapter! Sorry they're becoming slower, but it's finals season, and I needed more research for these next chapters.**

Felicjan was tiny, and Lithuania looked at him with a sympathetic glance from time to time, as the small blonde shuddered in his seat. Both were waiting to speak to Russia, though Lithuania was certainly on safer ground than Felicjan. He'd met this piece of Poland before, back during the partitions. He had Feliks' fire, but if he looked into his eyes, he could not see it; Felicjan's eyes were filled with a deep sadness only long periods of darkness could produce.

"I will speak with you now." Russia announced to Lithuania, ushering him into his office. Lithuania turned away, following him. He had other issues to deal with, as much as he empathized with Felicjan.

* * *

Felicja had been hiding out in another house; it had belonged to an elderly Jewish couple, judging by the pictures. She knew they wouldn't be coming back, but she still didn't move anything if she could help it.

Except for the food; she ate all the food she found. She had been slowly starving to death in the camp.

She could only imagine how the others back at the camp were faring; how Jan was faring. She almost felt guilty for escaping, but she soothed her conscience by continuing to plan ways to defeat the Germans...and now Russia as well. The Underground Army had various functions, but one of the most recent ones was their radio station; they had no way of knowing for the moment if they were reaching their allies, but they knew they were reaching other underground soldiers in other cities.

Some day soon, however, she knew Feliks would be back for her, bringing the allies with him. They'd easily outnumber Germany and Russia...

* * *

Feliks had been eating lunch with England when a thought occurred to him; they could get a signal going from here that would be recieved by the Poles. Sure, they couldn't communicate anything classified, but they'd be able to speak back...

He stood abruptly as England tut-tutted at his manners.

"Really, Poland, you ought to excuse yourself before you just run-are you even listening to me? No, no of course you're not..." He muttered, as Poland ran down the hall. England had developed a sort of fondness for Poland, not that he would ever show it. The blonde's energy and spunk made him think of America, his fiercely independent former colony. He still missed him, despite removing all tokens of him from his home.

He had been contemplating letting him and his pilots join in the battle now; Feliks had, after all, been doing better with the drills. And he needed the help; he was under heavy attack. He settled a hand on hip, where the wound simply seemed to keep growing; he was running out of available pilots, and he did need the help.

Poland would be thrilled to go into battle. He was odd that way.

* * *

Felicja was going to get Feyvel out of that ghetto; she couldn't stand the way his voice sounded weaker and weaker as the days went by. She and he had never necessarily been good friends, or even friends at all, actually, but she was somewhat fond of him, the way one could feel fond of a creak in the floorboards; it was familiar, and gave the place character.

Which was why she was sneaking about at night, past the curfew. If she was caught, she could very well be shot without question; she would most likely be fine, considering that she was a nation entity.

She tapped against the wall; she'd already planned this with him, so all she had to do was give the signal. Whistling like an owl, she waited a moment, before she heard the reply, and quickly began to pull bricks away from the base of the wall, uncovering the passage they'd made. Feyvel's head poked up not a few seconds later.

"Come on!" She grabbed his wrist, dragging him into the nearby house just as a German patrol car turned the corner. It had been simply too close...

* * *

"Pl-please...please, no more..." Felicjan gasped, spitting up blood. His entire body was quaking, his arms straining from the way they'd been chained above his head. His legs had long since given out on him...

Russia smiled, settling his pipe against the wall.

"I'm just helping you, da? Like I helped Feliks..."

"N-no more..." Felicjan pleaded, taking another shuddering breath; it was difficult to breath with a broken sternum.

"Do not be worrying...you will have the other pieces back with you again, little one..." Russia assured him, smoothing his dark blonde hair.

Felicjan shut his eyes, terrified.

"But first...we must be getting rid of those lofty thoughts of yours, won't we...?" Russia had grasped his pipe again, eyes settling on Felicjan's skull...

**All right, historical stuff! A lot of Poles did end up staying in vacated Jewish homes; after the Jews were herded into ghettos, there were a ton of empty houses (most of which were never returned to).**

**Also, Felicjan represents Soviet-occupied Poland; while Soviets were intent on basically killing whatever Poles they got their hands on, they specifically targetted anyone who could be a threat (teachers, priests, politicians, professors, monks, nuns, military officers...) More on this later.**

**The highest number of Righteous Among the Nations from a country was Poland; about 1000 more rescuers of Jews than any other country. However, like I mentioned before, it wasn't specifically because Poles were highly attached to Jews; they were more attached to their sense of right and wrong.**

**Churchill was beloved by the Poles, and Churchill liked the Poles in return; he was outspoken and passionate, they were outspoken and passionate. It was like a match made in heaven, and eventually more of England came to love their Polish pilots.**


	13. No Good Deed

**And onto to more history! ^_^**

Felicja had only just rescued Feyvel, and he looked terrible. He had suffered a good deal of trauma to the head, but he still seemed to keep his space from her. As he would be expected to. Feliks and Feyvel's relationship had always been rather cool.

She brought him some of the food she'd found in the house.

"Don't worry, it's kosher." She assured him, passing him the bowl of soup she'd made. Feyvel frowned slightly.

"This isn't your house..."

"No, no it isn't. I'm just hiding here for the moment." Felicja explained, handing him a spoon as well.

"This isn't your food..."

"No, it's not. But the people who lived here probably won't be back before it spoils." She shrugged, taking a seat on the end of his bed.

Feyvel suddenly threw his bowl at her, sloshing the hot soup onto her skin.

"You monster! How could you just take their home and belongings for yourself? They loved these things, do you understand? Their children cry for this food, and you're just eating it up and giving it away! This food was never for you!" He yelled, getting to his feet.

Felicja backed away, startled.

"O-ow! Feyvel! Stop, you'll hurt yourself! I only took the food because I was hungry!"

Feyvel stormed away furiously, heading down the stairs. Felicja went to the sink, carefully running water over her red skin.

She hadn't expected him to be so angry...but she couldn't be mad at him. He probably truly thought that the people who'd owned this house would come back...at least, that was what he really wanted...

* * *

Poland had sat down at the table with a pout on his face, rather annoyed that he was attending another formal event. England smiled lightly; oh, how Poland reminded him of Alfred...

His dear, dear Alfred...

"Can we go home now?" Poland questioned, interrupting England's thought. England smiled at him, shaking his head.

"Will you stay an hour longer if I let you in on a little secret?"

Poland looked over, curious.

"Okay, okay, what is it?"

"You and your pilots have been approved for combat." England announced, taking a sip nonchalantly from his cup. He nearly choked on his drink when Poland jumped up and hugged him tightly, excited.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you! I won't disappoint you, I promise!"

England blushed slightly at the display, patting Poland's back somewhat awkwardly. Indeed, he was very much like his Alfred...

* * *

Felicja had simply had to leave Feyvel alone; if Prussia didn't see her, he'd become suspicious. She glanced down the street, swallowing; the German soldiers had been performing daily executions among her people. Her body ached everytime it was done; she was in constant pain.

She looked at the corpses still hanging from the gallows as a warning to others. But a warning for what? Only two of these people had been caught selling food to Jews; the other twenty were just unlucky. They were simply Polish.

She continued down the street, looking away from the gruesome sight.

It was difficult to keep living like this without panicking, like many of her people. This was not a time for the weak-hearted.

She glanced about, before ducking into another house. This was where a group of her people were meeting, though not for anything nefarious. Music played quietly, as young Poles danced in the basement. This was about keeping their hope, their passion alive.

To remember who, and what, they were.

They were the Poles, who had endured over a hundred years of hardship for their freedom; they were not going to simply let it slip from their hands now.

* * *

Felicjan had long since stopped hoping; it seemed like Russia always knew what was goin on with him; where he was, how he felt, what he was thinking...

He simply couldn't stand it.

If he had been able to, he would've ended his life already, left whatever ruins and people there were to Feliks and Felicja. Life was not fair; he always got the worst among their lots. He couldn't stand it anymore...

He was so alone.

* * *

Feliks felt almost light-headed as he walked out to his plane. Today was the day he'd finally fight Germany again, just as he'd promised Felicja. He would not let her, or Felicjan, down.

He climbed into the cockpit, quickly checking his controls, fuel, guns. Everything was in working order. He took a moment to breath in the scent; oil, sweat, crisp morning air...it was so energizing.

He started the engine, guiding it out onto the runway. He could see the air battle going on, and it was a mess. But he would help turn that around.

Taking off expertly, he went towards the chaos, guns at the ready. He was flying in formation, as he'd promised England, and he was signalling in English, as he'd been trained.

But he was fighting for Poland.

* * *

Felicja's knees had begun to feel weaker than before; like she could barely go a few steps without feeling as if she would fall. She wasn't sure if it was physical or emotional pain that caused this; the two seemed to be so intertwined at this point.

She looked to Feyvel, who was still not talking to her as he ate his bread. She hadn't dared to give him soup again, after what had happened. She had tried talking to him about it, but he'd refused to look at her.

Feyvel glanced over at her, before wrinkling his nose.

"You're happy this is happening, aren't you?" He charged calmly. Felicja started in surprise.

"What? No! Why would I-"

"I mean that you're happy that he targetting Jews." Feyvel clarified, sullenly taking a bite of his bread.

Felicja shook her head.

"Feyvel, that's ridiculous! I would never want something like this to happen to you!"

Feyvel frowned, looking away.

"You've always wanted me to leave; now you're getting what you wanted."

"They're killing my people too, Feyvel!"

"But they're killing mine more!" Feyvel snapped, crossing his arms. Felicja looked down a moment.

"Feyvel, if I wanted you to die, would I be helping you? I know we haven't gotten along very well in the past, but I would never wish this on anyone. Not even Russia."

Feyvel continued to frown, picking at his bread.

"You're only helping me because of your religion."

"I am helping you because it's right."

"Sure."

**Okay! Many Jews were not exactly happy with their Polish rescuers when they saw what was happening to Jewish belongings; because they were sealed inside ghettoes, they didn't see what happened to the Polish part of the population, and so didn't realize that the Poles were being victimized as well. Some Jews felt as if the Poles were taking advantage of them, and though there were a few scoundrels who did so, most Poles were just trying to survive.**

**Polish pilots, along with other refugee pilots, helped turn the Battle of Britain around. They were skilled and experienced, and offered competition to German planes.**

**Poles were the target of daily executions by Nazis as a means of controlling them through terror. Also, Poland was the only Nazi-occupied country that had incredibly harsh consequences for even selling food to a Jew, let alone trying to help them escape. Often, entire families would be killed if one person in that family helped a Jew. **


	14. Ghosts Come Back to Haunt

**Yay, another chapter!**

England couldn't help but be surprised; Poland had not been exaggerating when he said he was an expert pilot. Now that the battle was over, the blonde was more enthusiastic about fighting than ever before, if that was possible.

"You did a satisfactory job, Feliks."

Poland beamed at him, hands on his hips proudly.

"I told you! I told you I was awesome at this! Where do you need me now?" He attempted to get up from the hospital bed he was currently in. England caught his shoulders, easing him back into place.

"I think perhaps you should heal that head wound of yours first..." He chided, leaning over the Pole as he settled him back into the bed. Poland looked up at him, eyes lightly glazed over from the medicine he was on for the pain; one of the planes he'd shot down had exploded, and a piece of shrapnel had hit him in the head. Not that Feliks had noticed; he'd only gotten treatment for it after the battle was over. If he hadn't been a nation...

England resisted the urge to scold Poland, as the blonde looked up at him happily.

"Seriously, I'm ready to go! That bastard Germany won't know what hit hi-"

Suddenly, England's lips sealed over Poland's, and England felt the other nation start at this. He hadn't been planning to kiss him; he hadn't even thought about the consequences...until Poland kneed him in the gut. England drew back, gasping slightly. Poland looked at him accusingly, shuffling back in his bed.

"F-Feliks, I don't know what came over me, I apologize..." England tried, turning red. Poland glared.

"Get out! Go!"

England turned on his heel and ran; he'd seen Poland angry before, but this was something beyond just angry. He actually feared what the Pole might do if he didn't listen...

* * *

Felicja had tried to come up with a plan to get Feyvel out of the country; mostly because it would mean she wouldn't be in so much danger if she wasn't hiding him any longer. Feyvel had, of course, refused to go along with the idea.

"Felicja, I cannot abandon all the people still trapped in the ghetto! If you want me to go, you have to rescue all of my people first."

Felicja's cheeks puffed out in frustration for a moment, before she settled into one of the chairs; she kept feeling weaker and weaker as the daily executions continued.

"Feyvel, they're not going to all make it out..."

"Don't say that! If you actually try to save them, they'll be fine!"

Feyvel had stood, eyes blazing; his people were currently languishing in ghettos, but he seemed to be holding up rather well. Felicja couldn't say she was surprised; when Feyvel had moved here so long ago, he'd already endured the Spanish and Portuguese Inquisitions...

She stood as well, scowling.

"Do you think we have endless resources? We can barely take care of our own!"

"My people are the ones being slaughtered!"

"And I'm trying my best to stop that! But I'm not even in control here anymore! It's Germany who wants you dead!"

Feyvel was silent a moment, looking down.

"Well, I can't exactly ask him to stop, can I?" He replied solemnly.

"This is how you ask for help? By yelling and throwing soup?" Felicja countered, crossing her arms.

"I...apologize for that. Really. But I can't just sit by..."

Felicja sighed, unable to stay upset with him; he reminded her so strongly of Feliks.

"I will do what I can. You sleep, all right? You're getting weak..."

"Yes, all right."

* * *

Felicjan wasn't sure where he was; it looked familiar, but he couldn't be sure, with his vision so blurred. He sniffled, settling against the foul-smelling pallet he was currently lying on.

"...h-hello...?" His voice was so faint, he wasn't even certain he'd actually spoken; perhaps he just imagined it so.

"Poland? We must speak." It was Ukraine, her usually cheerful face more serious than ever; she looked awful, from what Felicjan could see.

"...oh..."

"You've hurt me deeply..."

"...You had to be attacked..."

"I'm still bleeding, Poland. Why did you hurt me?"

"...your cossacks...they could've hurt me..."

"I-I was on your side! I would've fought with you!"

"...I-I'm sorry..."

"After everything we've been through, why would you do this to me?" Felicjan felt blood trickle onto his back, as Ukraine shifted closer.

"...I was scared..."

"Of me? I would never hurt you!"

"...you would've...would've..."

Ivan watched Felicjan ramble feverishly; perhaps he had been too harsh. Maybe? Poland always came back, though. Like a yo-yo. So much fun.

* * *

Feliks was out of bed, but he still refused to go talk to England. Why on earth did he do that to him? Without even the slightest hint of a warning?

England entered the barracks where Feliks was pacing, still sheepish.

"Feliks? I do apologize for earlier...really, I wasn't thinking..."

Poland turned to him, scowling.

"Right. Just what do you think I am? Some sort of slut? I'm afraid you've confused me for France! Don't touch ever again, or I swear I'll-"

"What happened to you?" England's face had taken on that knowing look that Poland absolutely hated.

"What happened? I was invaded by Germany and Russia, remember?"

"That's not what I meant, Feliks...If you need someone to talk to, there are chaplains..."

"I don't want to talk to your chaplain! I am not crazy! You're the one who just kissed me out of the blue!"

England put a hand on his shoulder.

"Then you can talk to me?"

Feliks paused, glancing about the room.

"...it's your fault it happened anyways..." He muttered darkly. He felt England draw his hand back as if it had been burned.

"You didn't back me up!" Feliks charged angrily. "I needed your help, and you abandoned me!"

"We didn't expect it so soon!" England protested.

"You didn't expect it at all!" Feliks charged, glaring at England.

England sighed, turning.

"I am sorry, Feliks. But I can't help you..."

"...yeah. I know."

* * *

Feyvel had woken up in the middle of the night, gasping for air. Felicja could only guess what was happening to him, but it was a familiar thing to her; his people must have begun to be herded off to the camps. She stopped short of hugging Feyvel, knowing he would not appreciate it later. Instead, she prepared tea.

"I'm sorry, Feyvel...there's nothing I can do..." They were both helplessly being slaughtered in their own country...

**Poor England; he has no clue that he's just being controlled by a bunch of young English girls. You see, after the Battle of Britain, Poles became very popular among the ladies. They were well-mannered, had exotic accents, and they were terribly dashing and romantic. And, just for the cherry on top, they were war heroes in uniform. **

**Jewish-Polish relations: still terribly rocky. Just a note, though; Jews, though rounded up first, were not the first victims of death camps. Mostly political opponents who were largely Polish were targeted at first. **

**Felicjan is hallucinating over some older conflicts between himself and Ukraine during the 1800s. Ukrainians and Poles did not get on well then at all, even though both were subjugated by the Russians.**


	15. The Angels Cry

Hi!** Well, it's been so long since I've written this...I only hope I can pick up where I left off and finish this as well as I can!**

Well, Poland had never met this particular nation before, and England had not bothered to introduce them. He sighed to himself, approaching the quiet blonde nation.

"Hello? I am Poland...it is nice to meet you." He introduced himself.

"Oh! I'm Canada..." He spoke in such a quiet voice as he shook his hand, and Poland frowned at this; so passive...if there was one thing he hated in another country, it was passivity. He saw it as taking their nationhood for granted.

"Are you one of England's colonies...?" He replied a bit crossly, and Canada shook his head, ever so politely.

"Oh, no, I am mostly independent. I decided to enter the war on my own..."

"Sure you did." Poland crossed his arms, and promptly turned on his heel. He had work to do.

* * *

Felicja had made another plea to remove Feyvel from this unsafe place; again, he refused. It seemed all they did now was argue.

However, despite their seemingly mundane existence, danger lurked at every corner, and when the loud pounding of German soldiers banging on the door woke them in the middle of the night, Felicja knew things could not end well. It was as if her stomach had been hit with molten lava.

She stumbled to the door, motioning for Feyvel to hide.

"Open this door!"

"I'm coming!" She ran as fast as she could, throwing the door open just as Feyvel disappeared into his hiding place beneath the floorboards. The German soldiers were large, and lead by a man with mean eyes. She swallowed, but curtsied and let them in.

"What seems to be the problem?" She asked quietly, willing herself with every ounce of self control she owned not to look at the floor and be certain Feyvel could not be seen between the cracks in the floorboards. The leader stepped forward, watching her critically.

"Are there any Jews here?"

She nearly glanced at the floor at this, but instead redirected her gaze to the clock. It was funny that she had never noticed before now that this particular clock was off by an hour...

"No, no Jews here. Just me." She glanced at the dishes in the sink; two bowls, two cups, two sets of silver wear...she should've done them the night before instead of leaving them. Surely they would notice. Her gaze went back to the clock.

"You do understand that the penalty for harboring a Jew is death?" The leader ask, catching her chin and redirecting her gaze to himself. Felicja swallowed.

"Yes, of course. I would never harbor a filthy Jew." She responded, focusing on his nose.

The leader signaled the other soldiers, and they began to tear the house apart, throwing things where they didn't belong, dumping even the most precious keepsakes of the previous occupants on the floor.

"If you are not harboring Jews, why do you own this?" One of the soldiers had handed the leader a copy of the Torah...

The people who had left their home must not have had any time to pack...or had thought that they would return soon...

Felicja swallowed, looking down.

"This house belonged to a Jewish family...I'm just living here..."

The leader threw her down onto the bed, growling.

"You will stop lying to me! Are there any Jews here?" He wrapped a hand around her thin throat, though not hard enough to choke her; it was a warning of what was to come if she answered the question incorrectly.

"No." She answered quietly, shutting her eyes. The leader shook her angrily, and her fingers flew to his hand, trying to pry it off, to relieve the pressure on her neck. She could still breath, but it hurt so very badly. She could already feel the bruise forming...

"Where are they?" The man snarled, shaking her like a rag doll. She was tiny and fragile in his large hands...

"Please! There are no Jews!" Felicja pleaded, as the man finally let go, dropping her onto the bed again.

"Perhaps I can find another way to punish you for these lies..." He unstrapped his belt, and Felicja's eyes went wide.

"No! There are no Jews, I swear it!" She tried to scoot away, but was pushed down by her shoulders hard enough to push one out of place. She cried out, squirming and kicking at him. "Get away!"

He ripped her dress open, leering down at her.

"I shall make you scream..." He smoothed her blonde hair, chuckling at the way the color drained from her face.

"Pl-please..." She pleaded, lips trembling. He leaned in, sealing his lips over hers. There was no way she could get out of this one...

* * *

Felicjan struggled to stay upright, as Russia cheerily spoke to him; about how Germany was being so much crueler to the Poles in his half. How leaving would be foolish, and he should love staying with him, Russia. They would be a happy family. Ukraine could be the big sister, Russia the big brother, Belarus the little sister, and Poland the dog. He would make such a wonderful pet; he made such delightful noises.

Yes, Felicjan was his favorite toy, but he couldn't play with him like this forever. He needed to become strong enough to become all of Poland; this was the only way to control Poland. He smiled, lifting the trembling blonde and plopping him into the tub effortlessly. Felicjan was so very small...

"Do not worry, little Poland..." He began to wash the blood out of his hair.

"Russia will take care of you, da?"

He got no response, as the frightened country stared straight ahead...

* * *

He thought he had judged Canada correctly the first time around. He was a timid half-nation, who listened to everything a superior nation told him to do.

He was wrong.

So very wrong.

He openly gaped at the sight before him, as Canada attacked a submarine with nothing but a knife. No guns, no grenades...no clothes...

And it was working. He could barely believe his eyes as Germans abandoned ship, terrified of the this mad Canadian. Where the hell had all this come from...?

**All right, footnotes:**

**Canada, at the time, was technically mostly independent; the Prime Minister of Canada insisted time and again that Canada chose to enter the war because they believed it to be the right choice, not because the UK did it. Also, yes, there were some Canadians who attacked a submarine naked, according to my sources. Scared the poor Germans half to death...**

**And oh, Felicjan...Russia is going to brainwash you into trying to take over all of Poland in a communist puppet government!**


End file.
